HP: Panem et Circenses

March 23rd, 1997

A rogue curl of blonde fluttered about the tip of Fleur's nose with each peaceful rise and fall of her chest. Rays of dawn slipped past the curtains of the small window, catching in all her wild loose braids and bathing her in a soft silver halo.

'Look at you.' Tristan brushed the lock back behind her ear with his little finger. 'How could you ever be anything less than perfect?'

Before his mind's eye, a shadow's hand replaced his own on Fleur's smooth curves in last night's memory of their breathless, desperate passion, and her needy moans stirred in his ear as he thrust within her.

'Stop fucking thinking about that.'

Tristan threw back the covers and dragged on his dueling robes.

'I need to know all that happened.' Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared at his reflection in the tall mirror on the opposite wall. 'If I don't, I'll ruin everything by overthinking it again and again.'

Dread tugged at his heart with ice-cold fingertips. 'I can never let that happen.'

Fleur stirred and stretched beneath the covers. "Come here and hold me, mon Coeur."

"It's pretty late already," he murmured, tying the laces of his trainers. "We should get ready for the day."

The bed shifted; her soft, warm weight brushed against his back, lithe arms snaking around his neck. "How are you feeling, Tristan?"

"I-" Tristan forced the words through a bitter knot of dread. "I need to know what else happened back then, Fleur."

Both arms drew back and with them all their warmth. "Tristan... look at me."

He hardened his heart and turned around.

Fleur watched him with guarded blue eyes, the thin blanket tucked under her armpits. "I do not think that is a good idea, mon Coeur," she murmured.

"I have to know." Tristan stared at his hands in his lap. "I can't forget it, I can't obliviate myself off it. I just want to stop doubting."

"Mon Coeur." A gentle finger lifted his chin. "There is nothing for you to doubt." Her bright blue eyes pierced him. "You made me all yours, remember? Heart. Body. Soul. Now and forever."

"Please, Fleur," he begged, cupping her smaller hand in his. "Please, just tell me."

She watched him as the seconds trickled by, then swallowed hard and nodded. "D'accord, mon Coeur. Richard and I met here, during the tournament two years ago." Fleur eyes darkened a hue. "I was different before I met you. I was young, I was naive, and all the girls from Beauxbatons flaunted their many kisses and first escapades with cute boys in my face. Richard was a good duelist, popular, from a well-known family, and he showed some resistance to my allure, so one night-," her voice trembled, bitter regret coloring its tone, "-one night, I went back to his cabin with him."

'His cabin.' Tristan's breath caught on cruel, twisted images, and his stomach churned hot and cold. 'That's how much she trusted him...'

"Non." Fleur cupped his face in warm hands. "It was nothing like what we have, mon Coeur," she breathed. "There was no romance, no passion, no love. I did not spend the night with him, and it only happened once."

"Just once?" He peeked up, searching her eyes in a faint flicker of hope. "You- you promise?"

"Je te le promets, Tristan. Just once, never again." Her eyes flashed black as night. "The scar Richard carries… he received it in the dueling circuit after he tried to persuade me of a repetition..."

Tristan's heart froze in a coat of cold fury and the ice crept up his throat. "He forced-"

"Non-," Fleur silenced him with a kiss, "-he tried, and he paid the only price I would accept for it." She slipped into his lap, linking her arms around his neck and trailing little kisses down his jaw. "You are everything he is not, mon Coeur. That is why you are different."

The thin blanket slipped from Fleur's armpits down the curve of her breasts, and Tristan's eyes dipped with it.

A faint smirk played on Fleur's lips. "You were very thorough with me last night, mon Coeur." She rolled her hips, biting her lower lip until the soft rose-pink tissue whitened beneath her teeth. "I can still feel you inside me."

He swallowed a flicker of concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"Non, I am not hurt, just a bit sore," she cradled his head to her cleavage, whispering into his ear. "But I like it when you are a little rough with me, mon Coeur... Just be gentle now, s'il te plaît."

Tristan brought his hands to her hips, admiring their slow steady rhythm, and flirted with that tempestuous, greedy little spark in his belly.

'I can't.' He smothered the excitement, letting it all swirl down the drain. 'I have to be better.'

"Come here, Fleur." Tristan drew her into his arms instead, running his fingers through her soft long blonde hair and breathing in her sweet warm scent. "I just want to hold you for now."

Fleur melted into his embrace with a soft sigh, the steady beat of her heart thumping against his chest. "Are you sure, mon Coeur?" she whispered. "I can make you feel good. I want to make you feel good."

"You don't need sex for that, you just need to be yourself." Tristan drew back and kissed her on the forehead. "And I promised I'd let you in my life, remember? I promised I'd be better for you."

"Oui, you did." Fleur tucked the blanket up to her neck. "Désolée, Tristan." Guilt flickering through her soft blue eyes. "I... I will try to be better for you, too, mon Coeur," she whispered. "Je te le promets."

He chuckled. "Well, you have far less work ahead of yourself than I do." Holding her slim waist, Tristan rose off the edge of the bed and lowered her onto her toes. "I really mean it, Fleur. You're already perfect for me."

"Merci." Fleur wrinkled her nose, huffing that rogue curl of blonde hair off her face. "Even though I feel far from perfect right now." The shadow of her hand stirred beneath the thin blanket and lingered between her thighs. "A good shower will help."

"Oops." Tristan offered her a smug grin. "Désolé?"

A peal of soft laughter burst from her lips. "Non, you are not." Fleur dropped the blanket and tiptoed bare across the room to her wardrobe, smirking as she caught his eyes over her shoulder.

"You are very lucky the last couple days, and probably the next few, are not that risky, mon Coeur." Plugging a white towel from the drawer, she wrapped it around herself and drifted back toward him. "But I would be lying if I said I do not enjoy it too."

"We can make the most of it later tonight." Tristan tilted her chin up and caught her lips in a gentle kiss. "I love you."

"Je t'aime, Tristan," Fleur whispered and blew him a kiss, her heart shining in her big blue eyes. "Je t'aime plus que tout."

He wound through the corridor past staring Beauxbatons students and stepped outside the cabin into a bright, clear spring morning. Grabbing a plate and piling a few dishes along the way, Tristan headed towards the table occupied by his peers and slipped into the empty spot beside Daphne.

"Good morning, everyone!" Flitwick squeaked, climbing onto the bench. "How are we all feeling? Well-rested I hope?" He beamed into the round. "I would like for us to meet as a team each morning and recapitulate the duels of the previous day. But first, let me congratulate you all on a job very well done!"

"Did we actually do well?" Tristan asked Daphne between sips of orange juice. "I only recall McLaggen losing quite... spectacularly."

Daphne giggled behind her cup. "Cedric, Roger, and you all won their duels, but our sixth-years got less lucky with their draws; Cho and Cormac both lost, so did Anthony from my year."

"Six wins out of nine duels still isn't too shabby for the first day," he murmured, swallowing down his breakfast and listening to Flitwick's enthusiastic speech with one ear.

"Yours was the most impressive," Daphne whispered, a little awe dwelling in her light green eyes. "That firespell-"

"Is called fiendfyre," Cho Chang muttered opposite them. "And it's illegal dark magic."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "This isn't Umbridge's classroom, Chang. Feel free to spoil your boyfriend's mood after losing yesterday, but spare the rest of us."

"Watch yourself, Peverell," Diggory growled. "You're giving all of us a bad reputation. Just like you did last year."

"We are all on the same team so can we please stop fighting?" Daphne whispered. "You've heard the officials; all magic is permitted, and we literally saw someone using blood magic yesterday. What Tristan did was completely fine."

"Seriously, Greengrass?" Chang snorted. "Peverell will never give you the time of the day over his veela. Just get off your knees already."

Daphne's cheeks turned an ugly shade of pink and her eyes flashed. "Talk to me like that again, and as captain, I'll send you back home for creating discord within the team."

Cho sneered and stomped off, with Diggory hurrying after her.

"Ms. Chang, Mr. Diggory?" Flitwick squeaked. "Where are you two off to? The first duelists are about to be announced!"

"Well, in that case..." Tristan gulped down the last sips of his orange juice and wrapped two unfinished croissants in a napkin. "Need a ride, Daphne?"

Daphne stared at his offered hand, a touch of that blush still on her cheeks. "Thank you, but I'll side-along with Professor Flitwick, I think."

"Suit yourself."

He wrenched the world back past him, stepping out onto the black rock of the stands surrounding the dueling circuit, and his lunges filled with salty air carried from the open sea across the fjord by a gentle breeze.

Row after row filled with students, brimming with their chatter and excitement. Tristan took a seat and watched the Beauxbatons gather around the towering silhouette of Madame Maxime.

Fleur stepped from the air in a ripple of blue, flattening out the skirt and blouse of her uniform as she joined the circle of her peers. The other Beauxbatons students skirted away from her, faces twisted into judging scowls and jealous grimaces, lips pinched.

'Is this how they've treated you for the last few years?' A pang of sympathy knifed through Tristan's heart. 'No wonder you are the way you are, petite Fleur...'

Madame Maxime addressed Fleur, and all her peers bobbed their heads to whatever she was saying, muttering among themselves and glowering. Fleur crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her chin up.

'What are they giving you crap for now? Me spending the nights in your room?'

Jarl Olafson stepped onto the circuit with a soft snap.

"Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the second day of the qualifications. For our first duel, I'm asking Blaise Zabini from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Paul Antoinette from Beauxbatons Academy to step forward, please."

'Suits me just fine.' Tristan unwrapped his croissants as the contenders mounted the circuit and brought the first to his lips. 'Let's hope I have a few more duels to enjoy these.'

A pair of slim fingers plugged the croissant from his grasp.

"I was actually looking quite forward to eating that..."

Laughter shone in Fleur's bright blue eyes as she broke the pastry in two and slipped one half past her lips. "I missed breakfast because I had to shower-" she munched away with a smug smile, "-and I had to shower-"

A faint crash echoed throughout the stadium.

"- because of you, mon Coeur."

"Flawless logic, I really can't argue with that," Tristan conceded, admiring how all her damp blonde hair fell in two braids over her shoulders, catching the rays of the rising sun. "But luckily I have a spare-"

"Next up, we have Lothar von Richthofen from Durmstrang Institute facing Tristan Peverell from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Tristan rose from the bench, scowling down at Paul Antoinette handing Blaise Zabini back his wand. "Seriously Zabini? You couldn't have lasted another minute?"

"Since you will not be needing this anymore..." Fleur plucked the second croissant from his grasp and rose onto her tiptoes, brushing her lips over his and collecting a few crumbs with the tip of her tongue.

"Bonne chance, mon Coeur. And be careful." Her smile darkened somewhere above Tristan's shoulder. "Richthofen is one of Richard's close friends. He is a prodigy in runes."

A low murmur of ambition rose in Tristan's chest. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

He descended the steps, feeling all the eyes of the spectators. Opposite him, one of Wagner's tall blonde friends left the Durmstrang delegation to the cheers and hollers of his mates, collecting pats on the back on his way down.

Slipping his wand into his palm, Tristan spun it through his fingers; his eyes roamed over the immaculate fabric of Richthofen's red uniform, the wood-beaded necklace, and the pair of vain gray eyes studying him beneath sleek shoulder-length blonde hair.

'Looks like a Malfoy to me.' The humor gave way to a rush of cool adrenaline, and the wand of elder between his fingertips hummed in a whisper of ink-black magic. 'A Malfoy who's good at wards.'

"Ready? Begin!"

Tristan twirled his wand, matching Richthofen's steps as they circled each other. A taut, tense silence held the fjord and arena in its iron-tight grasp, stretching on and on as the inconspicuous twitch on his opponent's lips grated at his nerves like sandpaper.

Tristan flung a pair of simple spells.

Richthofen drew his thin dark wand through the air, trailing a ribbon of strange purple runes from the tip. They pulsed as Tristan's spells struck them, throwing them back at twice their speed to whisk past his cheek and fizzle out in the dome behind him.

'I won't get past that shield. Anything short of an Unforgivable will only feed it.'

Having circled the platform once, Richthofen tore the palest of slim wooden cords from his necklace, coating it in a shroud of purple flame and hissing under his breath.

The wood disintegrated to fine white ashes, swept across the platform by the breeze, and a strange shiver of magic fell upon Tristan, crawling down his spine as he watched them float to the ground.

Richthofen snarled and hurled a flurry of spells in a wash of colors.

Tristan dodged the first few and flicked his wrist, but the elder wood throbbed in protest between his fingertips, and Richthofen's spell struck his forearm in a flash of searing pain.

He stared at his wand, ripping the burning sleeve off at the elbow and wincing at the raw red flesh weeping crystal clear fluid as new pink skin stretched over it.

'What the fuck?'

Purple curses flashed in the corner of his eye.

Tristan apparated behind Richthofen and slashed his wand, but the sizzling tongues of crimson flame flickered and sputtered out like candles in the storm.

A murmur of surprise swept through the spectators; Richthofen shared it, cocking his head like a crow, his brows knitted into a sharp vee.

'My magic.' The elder wood stammered in Tristan's palm, bleeding little wisps of black in a furious ice-cold swirl of whispers. 'Has he done something to my magic?'

Richthofen closed the distance, a wild, determined glint in his gray eyes, flinging spell after spell in a vortex of colors; a touch of despair rose from some dark place beneath Tristan's heart as he apparated and dodged, weaving through the onslaught with labored breaths.

'But then how am I still apparating?' His eyes fell on the specks of fine white wooden ashes playing about his trainers each time he wrenched the world back past him. 'And if it's not my magic, then what is it?'

The answer loomed in that slim gap of wooden cords swaying from Richthofen's neck.

"Elderwood." The word tumbled from Tristan's lips. "He powered the runes with it."

That faint prickle of magic falling upon him ebbed from the back of his mind. 'My wand is useless within them.' He slipped it back up his sleeve, recalling Olafson's speech.

"But if the wards don't prevent me from doing something..."

Tristan thrust out his hand and tugged with every last dread of magic.

"...then they are not meant to."

Richthofen soared across the platform like a puppet hauled on strings, screaming and punching and kicking the air. Snatching him by the collar of his robes, Tristan swung with all his weight.

His fist connected with Richthofen's jaw in a brutal crunch, and he dropped like a log, limbs spread out in all directions.

Tristan shook out his aching knuckles and glanced up in the thick stark silence.

The stands stared back at him; awe and fear shone in their eyes, bright as the breaking light of dawn spilling across the fjord.

'Just how it was meant to be.' A sweet little thrill whispered through Tristan's veins as he stepped past Olafson. 'I was meant to be great...'

"Winner, Tristan Peverell!" The referee announced, his face screwed up in a faint frown. "Next up, we have Dilara Birdal from Istanbul Dueling Üniversite and Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons Academy."

Tristan's eyes found Fleur's lit by all the light as she met him halfway down the steps; the proud smile playing on her lips was as warm and bright as the sun sparkling in her damp blonde hair.

"Bien joué, mon Coeur," Fleur whispered. "Well done."

He brushed her fingers in passing. "Don't make me wait too long for you, ma moitié."

"Never," she breathed. "I will win for us, mon Coeur."

Tristan climbed the rows and took a seat by the Hogwarts delegation. They whispered among themselves, all their eyes prickling in the nape of his neck.

Opposite Fleur, a girl in a long crimson gown entered the platform. The tattoo of a Chimera wound its sleek body of lion, goat, and dragon across her forehead, and a burn scar marred one half of her face, stretching in countless threaded tongues of flame from her neck up to her hairline.

"Well done, Tristan." Daphne shifted down the bench. "I had no idea you were that good at wandless magic?"

"You weren't meant to have an idea."

"Even Professor Flitwick was surprised," she whispered. "He said no one has ever seen anything like it in all the years the tournament has been held. Who taught you? Is it even something you can learn?"

"I think you either have it or you don't." Tristan nudged his head toward Fleur's opponent. "Have you seen her duel yesterday by any chance? What's she like?"

"Dilara Birdal," Daphne murmured, shivering. "Her last opponent had to be taken back to a hospital in Stockholm for treatment."

"Why?"

"The burns he suffered were so severe."

'Well in that case...' Tristan snorted, chuckling at Daphne's incredulous stare. "Oh, I'm not worried then; Fleur knows how to play with fire."

"Begin!" Olafson shouted.

Dilara Birdal drew herself up and thrust a long wand red as cherry wood into the heavens like a spear. Sparks sputtered from its tip and the air around it buzzed with magic.

She whipped her arm around.

Lightning flashed across the platform in a blinding beam of white.

Fleur widened her stance and with a sharp flick of her wand, she redirected the crackling beam into the ground before her feet; the lightning melted through the dark obsidian like a warm knife through butter, sending up a cloud of hissing steam as it struck the open fjord beneath.

Spinning like a clock, Fleur drew all the water from the vapor, joining countless tiny droplets into gleaming spears of ice and sending them forth with short jabs of her wand.

Birdal unleashed a torrent of crimson flames. Fiery serpents lunged from within the storm, swallowing the spears in searing snaps.

Daphne poked him with her elbow. "That's fiendfyre, isn't it?" she breathed.

'Yes, and she knows it well.' Tristan watched Fleur part the flames to either side of her with a long wave of her wand. 'But so does Fleur...'

Fleur twirled across the platform, bending and weaving between incoming spells; all the sizzling tongues of crimson followed in her wake, trailing her feet like a shimmering shroud and fusing into a wrenching blizzard of sky-blue flames.

Heat haze shimmered in her open palm and Fleur's chin sharpened, tiny specks of white prickling along her arms. She whirled on her heel and brandished her wand like a whip.

A spiraling lash of azure slashed through Birdal's crimson shield like a scythe through crops of weed.

A murmur swapped through the crowd, gasps followed as Birdal collapsed to the ground, staring at the smoking, blood-spurting stumps of her legs standing before her, her jaw torn agape in a silent scream.

"Winner, Fleur Delacour."

Fleur tossed her opponent's wand to Olafson and strode past him, curving past the team of healers storming the platform.

"She cut her legs off!" Daphne clasped Tristan's arm. "And with magic like that, I'm not sure if-"

Daphne's words were drowned in a flash of pride. Tristan shook her hand off and rose from his seat, his feet moving down the rows on their own accord, his eyes never leaving Fleur's.

"Well done." He scooped his arm around her slim waist. "Hold on tight."

Wrenching the world back past him, Tristan stepped out onto the threshold of the Beauxbatons cabin.

"Good idea, mon Coeur." Fleur covered a jawn behind her hand, leading him inside her room and shedding out of her uniform. "I did not get much sleep last night."

'Neither did I.' Tristan watched one article of clothing after another drift to the floor, a strange cold feeling knotting below his heart.

'Is this how it went with Wagner? When she went back to his cabin?' His stomach churned and clenched tight at the thought. 'Did he enjoy the same show?'

Fleur opened her braids, spilling all her hair down the smooth curve of her back in a cascade of platinum.

"You can do more than just watch, remember, mon Coeur?" She unclasped her bra and shrugged it off, glancing back at him over her slim shoulder as she slipped into the bed. "But you can also just hold me. I do not mind either."

Tristan placed his wand on the bedside table. "Let's just catch up on some sleep first." He undressed and slipped beneath the covers beside her, drawing her warm, soft body against his chest. "Your headmistress and peers seemed rather upset with you this morning?"

"I do not care or worry about them. They are just shallow, jealous people who envy what I found in you." Fleur snuggled closer and intertwined their legs. "They do not get a say in who I spend my night with."

"You're right, they don't." Tristan agreed, a little pang of envy knifing through his chest, and his arms tightened around her. 'I just wish it had always been me…'

"Hold me like this, mon Coeur," Fleur whispered into the crook of his neck, placing his hand above the swell of her breast, "So you can feel my heart; it is beating just for you. Now and always."

'Always.' Tristan swallowed a hot storm of emotion as he breathed in the scent of her hair, letting the weight of fatigue drag his eyes shut.

But behind his closed eyelids, Fleur danced and laughed and kissed William Weasley in her ivory dress beneath the sweeping white marquise.

'No.' His heart seized. 'It's meant to be me.'

And like the night before, she rode his lap, her hips moving in a swift smooth rhythm, her skin coated in a thin film of sweat, hot and flush against his.

Fleur soft curves filled his palms, her moans and gasps rang in his ears, but when Tristan caught sight of himself in the mirror over her shoulder, it wasn't his face that stared back; it was a scarred one, lips stretched into a wide cruel smirk.

He flinched awake into the gloom, choking for air.

Moonlight stole in through the small window, bathing the bed in a soft sheen, and glowing in Fleur's hair like spun silver.

'Just a dream.' Tristan drew in a ragged breath and waited for the pound of his heart to subside, forcing the images from his mind. 'It was just a fucking dream.'

He summoned his wand from the nightstand into his palm. "Tempus."

'I can't do this any longer. I can't run, I can't hide, not even in my own head.' Tristan rolled out of the bed and dragged on his clothes. 'I have to face him.'

His eyes fell on Fleur, snuggled up in all the blankets, a small smile on her lips. 'I have to tell her. If I don't and she wakes up, I'll have ruined everything.'

"Fleur," Tristan whispered, giving her a gentle nudge. "Fleur, wake up please."

She stretched beneath the blanket with a small moan.

"Mon Coeur?" Fleur sighed, one eyelid fluttering open. "What time is it?"

"Two hours past midnight."

She stilled and stared up at him, her eyes flickering between his. "Then why are you dressed, mon Coeur?"

"You know why." Tristan swallowed hard. "I have to do it."

"D'accord." Fleur threw back the covers and bounced off the bed, bare and bold in the light of the moon. "I will join you." She stepped into her underwear and skirt, slipping her arms through the straps of her bra. "Whatever it is that makes you doubt me, we will face it together. Right now."

"Fleur…"

She whirled around; any form of protest drowned in the fierce gleam of her bright blue eyes.

"Fine." Tristan sighed. "Do you know the way?"

Fleur tamed all her hair in an updo and slipped into her flats. "Follow me." She snatched her wand from the bedside table and swept out of the room.

Outside the Beauxbatons cabin, the campside lay peaceful at the shores of the fjord, bathed in moonlight, and the last, stubborn coals glimmered in the firepit.

Fleur led him into the thicket of the woods, weaving through the undergrowth and skipping over fallen trunks until muffled voices chimed from the tall, slender pines.

A small fire cast long flickering shadows across a rock breaching from the center of a clearing like a lone tooth. The swift rhythm of some Muggle music rang over the cackle of the flames.

Half-familiar faces, all of them older students from every school but Hogwarts, laughed and chatted around the rock, and a few couples danced by the fire, their bodies glued together in heated kisses.

Tristan crouched next to Fleur behind a massive fallen tree trunk. "This is not what I expected, but they definitely know how to throw a party." He took a whiff. "I just hope they store the Firewhiskey far away from the-"

Fleur's lips clashed against his and she slipped her tongue into his mouth. "Remember, mon Coeur. I cannot change what happened, but I am all yours now." Her kiss softened to something tender and she drew away. "Do not let him drive a wedge between us. Not after everything we have been through."

"I'm not here because of something you did long before you knew me," Tristan whispered, his heart aching. "I'm here because I need to learn to live with it."

"Bon." She seized his hand and skipped over the trunk. "Then let us do what we came here for, mon Coeur."

Tristan took a deep breath and leapt after her.

Eyes latched onto them, watching their approach, and the vigorous chatter died as they stepped into the light of fire until nothing but music chimed through the night, echoing back from the ring of dark pines.

"Is it true?" Richard Wagner appeared from behind the rock and flicked his wand at the muggle jukebox. "New arrivals at this late hour?"

The music spluttered and died.

"Welcome, Fleur Delacour and Tristan Peverell," Wagner spread his arms and smiled, his scar stretching in the firelight. "There is no need to worry, everyone; Fleur and Tristan just finally accepted our invitation. Come, join me over here, you two."

Some of the chatter picked back up and the ring of spectators dispersed into its previous groups and couples as they crossed the clearing toward the rock.

Wagner summoned a pair of cups and poured them both a steaming drink. "I'm afraid you missed most of the entertainment, but fortunately you're not too late to have a good time. We still have plenty of this stuff."

He offered them the cups; neither Tristan nor Fleur made a move to take one.

"We didn't come here to drink," Fleur said.

"Tough luck then." Wagner shrugged and downed both cups, licking his lips. "We have a set of rules here, you know. Two duels a night, and both have been fought already."

"I thought this was the place without all the rules," Tristan murmured. "Sounds to me like you're making excuses."

Wagner leaned back against the flat of the rock, folding his arms behind his head. "I've watched you duel today, Peverell. Again…"

"Let me guess, you are not impressed? Perhaps your friend was?"

"Your magic is not natural, Peverell!" Lothar von Richthofen snarled, stepping from the crowd. "You should've been on your knees after a mere attempt to cast anything within my wards."

"It's okay, Lothar, Tristan here plays by different rules." Wagner cocked his head, his brown eyes boring into Tristan. "But so do I…"

Amidst the deep dark of Wagner's irises, Fleur stared back at him from a bed scattered with white rose petals, her lips half-parted, her warm thighs wrapped about his hips as he thrust.

Tristan's heart seized. 'No!'

He staggered back, blinking hard until Wagner's silhouette sharpened.

"Ah, you don't seem too surprised." Wagner chuckled. "That means you've finally told him, haven't you, Fleur? I wonder how that particular piece of your past makes him feel…?"

"Mon Coeur?" Fleur cupped his jaw, peering into his eyes.

Tristan shook his head free of images of her. "I don't care about her past." A cold knot of hatred clenched beneath his ribs as he stepped back in front of Wagner. "You let something perfect slip through your fingers. And now she's mine."

"Is she truly yours?" Wagner leaned forth and whispered into his ear. "From today onward, anytime you're with her, anytime you're within her, you're going to think about me; the man who had her first."

Tristan grabbed him by the collar of his robes and slammed him up against the flat of the rock. White hot rage pulsed through his veins with each ragged breath.

The noise around him died, and two dozen feet shuffled closer across the forest floor.

"Careful now, Peverell," Wagner's smirk widened. "Look around yourself. You two are quite outnumbered here."

Tristan glanced over his shoulder; Fleur stood with her back toward him, shrouded in petals of her magic, and facing over two dozen wand tips trained at her heart.

"Fleur and I have faced worse odds together before," Tristan murmured, releasing Wagner's collar and letting him slide down the rock to his feet. "You have many friends here, but none are fast enough to stop me from what I'm about to do to you."

"Perhaps not." Wagner shrugged and drew his wand from his sleeve, spinning it around his fingers. "But while you're busy with me, my friends will take your little veela girlfriend for a moonlight stroll through the woods."

His eyes drifted over Tristan's shoulder. "And they're going to be a bit... rougher than I was. Your lover boy might not take you back after they're done with you..."

Fleur stepped around Tristan, silent as a ghost.

The air between them shimmered with her magic like marble in the summer sun, bleeding with her rage and scorching tiny black holes through the blue fabric of her uniform.

"Fleur-" Tristan reached for her wrist, but she stood anchored to the spot, and he flinched back, fingers seared in bright red blisters.

"Enjoy your party and your drinks, Richard," Fleur whispered, inches from Wagner's face. "Tomorrow, you will face one of us. Either in the arena, or right here. If it is the latter, you will come to wish there was a referee after all."